Warhammer: I don't want to become a stinky can!

Page 873

That fiery red was blocked by countless short, thin black figures. More and more black figures stood up in silence, drowning out the once bright and vibrant colors, leaving a patch of pitch black in His palm.

All that remained was a bestial rage and pain.

The darkness roared and tumbled, lunging at the gleaming blue, biting down hard on the shrieking monster. Blue feathers were torn off and scattered, turning the magnificent throne into a dirty, dog-eat-dog scene.

There is no truth or glory in this world; the whole truth is the desperate struggle and wretched crawl toward survival.

The Lord of Change shrieked—He probably could not understand—or was unwilling to accept being defeated by Magnus once again—even though the true Swordholder was Guilliman, and it was Guilliman who manipulated the game—fate still stubbornly chose for Him the Primarch who had most annoyed Him in the past.

The second chance gave Him too much to ponder—He treated the rest of Chaos with caution, yet He still stumbled over the fools. The Lord of Change may never have given Magnus a second glance—even after being outmaneuvered by the Crimson King, He still refused to respect this seemingly foolish but actually wise Primarch.

The Lord of Change gave Magnus ample surveillance and taboos—but overlooked the fact that all of this could still be carried out—after the Primarch's death.

[Robert Guilliman] Intelligent and ruthless enough... In this round, the Lord of Change is once again defeated by the Primarch He chose.

The Lord of Change roared, shrieked, and writhed, struggling as He was torn apart by the Lord of Darkness. He was in agony, filled with disbelief, astonishment, and rage—unable to understand, accept, or comprehend why He was bound to the Golden Throne. He should have been disrupting fate and the Empire at this moment, turning the Primarch into a puppet in His fingers—but instead, He was being dragged down into darkness by the Lord of Darkness.

Both jade and stone will be destroyed.

The Emperor, Neos, the Lord of Mankind, and the Dark Lord so favored this choice, enduring unimaginable resolve and pain, willing to abandon everything to bring Tzeentch down—

He did not desire his own individual victory, nor did he care about the life or death of any individual, nor did he concern himself with the fate of any individual. He only knew that he would pull Tzeentch down, seize the throat of this chaos, and make Him no longer sing, no longer sing mocking songs to fate.

He handed the empire over to his sons who betrayed him—without complaint or regret.

But when he—the moment He rose again—he vanished completely, and the god-like monster with pitch-black eyes stood up, cruel and cold.

....................................

[Killiman] is roaring.

He roared hoarsely, denouncing the enemy's folly, and a huge blue light descended, as if trying to suppress the fountain gushing from the throne.

But an even more malevolent, more profound blue light emerged—its essence was darker, more ancient, and more powerful than his.

Horus's mouth gaped open, unable to react. The scene before him surpassed the imagination of any Primarch, exceeding even the most extreme fantasies of humankind. Countless chaotic blue wings, some as large as the sun, others as small as quarks, were clearly visible, each feather piercing Horus's eyes. Each feather contained a complete universe, each feather forcibly imprinted into his brain and soul.

A blur flashed before his eyes as Horus fell straight backward, but no one cared about the Primarch's disheveled state. The Lord of Man's smile grew wider, while Guilliman desperately tried to escape.

Neither the Emperor he betrayed nor the Lord of Change would let him go.

If Guilliman were facing one of them alone, he might still have a chance of winning and surviving, but now, the two monsters that had just been released were staring at him together. They were insane, hysterical, and their eyes were devoid of reason and logic, filled only with anger mixed with ravenous fury.

Pierced by a longsword, he was nailed to the throne for ten thousand years.

This resentment—is powerful enough.

The black and blue ocean surged toward Guilliman. The Emperor looked up and saw that Guilliman still had the strength to fight. He couldn't help but marvel at how much power the Emperor of the Empire had accumulated for the human empire. In these ten thousand years, what exactly had Guilliman accomplished?

……

Within the territory of the Chaos Empire, amidst the numbness of the workers, enormous breeding machines roar—the empire relies on three main methods to increase its population: clones, Chaos breeding eggs, and human factories.

Cloned humans are used to produce canned humans who are born as adults and begin working.

The Chaos Spawn Egg is used to produce more perfect believers, connected to the High Heaven, and produces psionic ammunition packs.

Human factories are used to produce large quantities of souls—though the quality varies and cannot be guaranteed, they are the cornerstone of the existence of the "human" race.

[Killiman] No waste is allowed—allowing a human being to wander and beg is absolutely intolerable. Waste of labor and meat is unacceptable. Every bit of labor must be used to its maximum potential, and waste is intolerable.

The sacred bells rang out, echoing above the factory. The crowd was busy and numb, yet their dirty faces wore smiles and piety—neither soul nor faith could be wasted. After a century of experimentation, [Guilliman] finally found the most cost-effective way to cultivate faith. In terms of thought, the crowd was exactly the same.

The crowd is numb, and the physical and spiritual pain and suffering have vanished, leaving only paleness.

Morality and compassion have been completely erased. Humanity is equated with resources, with foundation stones. A stone can be arbitrarily broken, reassembled, painted with other colors, mixed with cement, and smeared at the feet of sacred icons. No one forbids you from doing anything to a stone; you can do anything—as long as it doesn't affect the efficiency of the great construction.

The concept of "humanity" is being stripped away, rewritten, and filled with new meaning by a modified entity from the subspace. Ten thousand years is enough to erase any trace of the past, let alone the systematic destruction of the beautiful memories of the past by a tyrant.

He could only watch from the sidelines.

We can only watch from the sidelines.

…………

+Killiman……+

+Nineteenth...+

How could this happen? He was clearly the most favored child, the most promising one, so why did things end up like this?

The Emperor pondered that he was perhaps now closer to his past self from ten thousand years ago—the final echo, the final remnant.

Darkness slapped against the Primarch's face as Guilliman awoke from his brief coma—his pupils dilated in disbelief. The psionic energy from Tzeentch and the Emperor had just shattered the Primarch's soul in an instant—a culmination of millennia of pent-up rage and despair, the pain of betrayal.

[Guilliman] opened his mouth, trying to say something, but [The Emperor] possessed him and realized what that mouth was trying to say—[Guilliman] was chanting a spell.

The next moment, the blue feathers of the Lord of Change pierced the Primarch's soul, their sharpness like blades, interrupting Guilliman's malicious words.

Vibrant blue blood seeped out, each drop stained with the satisfaction of oppression and greed. The Emperor lowered his head, his eyes filled with a dark and calm gaze.

How did things turn out this way? He originally believed that [Guilliman] could lead humanity to victory... but now, in this dilapidated empire, only the victory of humanity in another destiny line is possible.

They're all the same...

The Emperor stared into Guilliman's eyes, a colossal pain, accumulated over millennia, surging into the Primarch's soul—the Primarch was experiencing the suffering of humanity under his rule for millennia—would he awaken? Would he grieve? Would he repent?

The Lord of Mankind did not know where he went wrong... Why were his children not as benevolent as he was? Not as incorruptible as he was? Not as submissive as he was? This should be the nature and instinct of all Primarchs.

If... if Guilliman is willing to repent, he is willing to let this offspring rest in peace—

The Emperor waited, seeing Guilliman's face contorted in hysteria from pain, but a fierce glint suddenly flashed in the Primarch's eyes, which had been blank and filled with agony.

There was no repentance as the "Emperor" had imagined.

Robert Guilliman chanted his incantation, and a powerful, hysterical burst of psychic energy erupted. Terra seemed to explode at that moment; the entire ocean boiled. The blue psychic energy roared upwards—rushing towards the two psychic energies engulfing him—but at the last moment—the Emperor felt Guilliman's eyes gaze intently at him for a moment, revealing a hysterical smile. What did that smile contain? The Emperor didn't understand.

Then, the Primarch's psionic energy surged toward the Colossus, and the two blue beams of light, each with a different hue, collided, pulling the mad Tzeentch away into the distance.

It was as if he was saying, since we've already lost, it's his turn this time.

[Emperor] Thinking back, the reason he valued Number Thirteen back then was because of his human supremacy.

…………

Dark waves surged and swept towards the self-proclaimed noble monarch in an instant—the emperor blinked and saw that the golden crown was like a small golden-blue boat in the raging waves, instantly swept away—but before leaving, it burst out with an undeniable power.

Then, the bluebird was dragged away.

The emperor's lips curled into a satisfied smile, yet he was like a shaky glass, with wisps of black lines somehow wrapping around his body, as if severing his flesh.

It's really... how come two people with different fates still have the idea of ​​their spiritual energy contaminating each other?

Neos heard the mad roar of another version of himself, he saw the memories of that other version of himself, but he shook his head and shook those pitiful memories out of his mind.

He strode toward the Wolf God—the unfortunate Primarch had been almost completely swallowed by the black ocean, with only one hand visible above the surface, still gripping the sword tightly as if it were his everything.

The Wolf God's mission is complete, and the Emperor is in a good mood. It has been proven that all-in will always prevail. Now the Wolf God can rest, but not be housed in His divine realm. The Emperor has already been corrupted, and the Wolf God cannot be allowed to be corrupted as well.

He reached out to the drifting hand and then gripped it tightly—regardless of whether its owner was unconscious.

Taking advantage of the brief respite after the seal was broken, and while the two mad gods were seeking revenge—while what was being released now was just a scrap, and the massive Black King's true form was still bloated and squeezed onto the throne, slowly reflecting the sudden release and freedom—they could still do something else.

On the other hand, the Emperor's sanity also infiltrated the mind of another Dark Lord—despite his madness, a last glimmer of light still struggled within the being known as the "Dark Lord," giving them a chance to survive.

Caught.

The emperor's smile widened, like the darkness spreading between his pupils. He gripped it tightly, as if a whisper, seemingly nonexistent, had lightly brushed past without exerting any force. They remained a small boat on the vast ocean.

The emperor looked at the throne, at the absurd spectacle—those absolutely black pupils stared back at him, and at that moment, the past, present, future, existing, and non-existent reached a consensus.

All emperors, all destinies, all differences will reach a consensus at this moment.

And so, their fates intersected here.

Chapter 875 [317] Happy Ten Thousand Years!

What's your plan for this move?

The old man hunched over, his face hidden deep in the shadow of his cloak, with only a few strands of long, silvery hair hanging listlessly from either side of his face on the chessboard.

"All in."

"...We are playing chess, not gambling."

"I'd like to play chess with them—"

The middle-aged man, his eyes gleaming with an unreadable light, spoke with a strong voice, a sly smile playing on his lips.

"But you and I both know that those scumbags won't play chess with us—we might as well bring over the one among them who's the biggest gambler. The winner takes everything, and the loser only loses nine out of thirteen."

"..."

The old man suddenly threw out the black chess piece in his hand, and the piece hit the chessboard with a crisp clang!

"You've gone mad! Do you know what you're doing?! This is chaos—this is complete chaos! Putting aside the Empire and humanity—you still want to become the Dark Lord?!"

"To die slowly from suffocation in a cramped, airtight room, or to try to detonate a bomb in the room—Macado, I will always choose the latter."

"crazy……"

Makado shook his head; the stubborn guy opposite him had already left.

“A complete madman… I shouldn’t have encouraged him to revolt.”

Makado muttered to himself, his voice eventually fading into the boundless darkness.

"For your wishful madness and victory—how many more people will have to sacrifice? I know, I know—you don't care."

He cares about no one but "all of humanity".

That fucking bastard.

..............................

Happy New Year!

Falling, falling at breakneck speed, as if piercing through boundless darkness, plummeting into a bottomless abyss. Before the baby even hits the ground, it will turn into an old man, and then a handful of gray will drift away with the wind.

Neos blinked, the black star in his eyes shimmering and growing larger. This was natural; he had entrusted the concept of the ruler of the empire to Guilliman, and the concept of human faith to Saint Gilles. He himself naturally had little left, not to mention his desire to retire.

For this reason, in another destiny line, the power of the Dark Lord is rapidly corrupting him.

The two destinies here form a clever overlap—the good news is that apart from the Emperor and Tzeentch, the other beings will not be affected much—because only the higher-dimensional projections of the Emperor and Tzeentch pass through the dual destinies via the subspace.

When fate finally collapses, only the victor will truly exist, while the other will vanish without a trace, disappearing far more completely than ice in the height of summer.

This is a really good thing.

Suddenly, a small confetti tube appeared in the emperor's hand. Bang! In a good mood, he set off a confetti flower, wishing everyone eternal happiness!

He was surprised to find that his other self had been so capable, remaining on the Golden Throne for ten thousand years and even managing to elevate him to the position of Dark King.

Neos seemed completely unconcerned that he too would be corrupted and likely become like the Dark Lord—or rather, that was exactly what he was waiting for.

Without the Dark Lord, what will they use to fight the Outer Ones?

An excruciating pain gripped him, accompanied by a burning sensation in his soul. The Emperor did not resist the Dark Lord's psychic power; instead, he chose to accept it.

This is why the Emperor insisted that Macardo lure the Outer Ones over, seemingly disregarding the lives of others—the Outer Ones were necessary to defeat the Necromancers, but the Necromancers couldn't perish together with the Outer Ones, so the Dark Lord would be the next to make his grand entrance.

From the very beginning, the emperor placed his own pieces on the opposite side of the outsiders.

He wasn't foolish enough to expect Hades to fight Tzeentch after single-handedly defeating the Outer One. Even if Hades might actually be able to do it, an out-of-control Hades would likely be a problem afterward.

Professional tasks should be handled by professionals, such as Don Quixote, who single-handedly sealed the Void Dragon tens of thousands of years ago, or Hades, who is obsessed with psychic energy.

The Emperor blinked, feeling his vision growing increasingly blurry, but fortunately, despite the immense pain, he was still able to maintain enough rationality and decision-making to avoid being completely consumed by the power of the Dark Lord.

He turned his head and looked at Horus, who had already fallen into a coma—falling with him between two layers of fate.

Let him go where he belongs—that's what the Emperor thought. Without wasting too much energy and time on this thought, he waved his hand, and the falling Horus was swept away by his psychic power.

This calamity will befall both Horus and the human empire—there is no way around it, their enemy is the Tzeentch.

This time it's probably coming to an end soon—the Emperor thought, his pupils were pitch black, with only a ring of sharp gold around the edges, and his originally gray hair had turned black again.

He was absorbing the power and memories of his other self, and the smile on his lips grew wider and wider. He wished his offspring were as reliable as his other self.

This time, it can probably come to an end.

"May you live ten thousand years"—the emperor celebrates with another version of himself, expressing heartfelt gratitude for what he has done.

Everything was arranged—or perhaps it could be said that his warriors, his offspring, now knew what they were to do.

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